A Murder in Time (30 page)

“'Tis troubling to look at neighbors, acquaintances, perhaps even friends with suspicion.”

“I'd think that it would be even more troubling to find another dead girl.”

He gave her a wry look. “Rest easy, Miss Donovan. I have no intention of turning a blind eye.”

“Good, because once we have the list of suspects, we'll need to interview them. Find out if they have an alibi for the night the girl was murdered.”
Basic police work
, she thought again.

“Hmm. And if they do, we will be able to cross them off our list, I assume?”

“Yes.”

The Duke's expression turned thoughtful. “'Tis a logical approach—if, that is, your assumptions are correct.”

“They are.”

He had to smile. “You are very confident.”

“In this, I know what I'm doing.”

“Interesting. That implies in other things, you do not.”

“Well, I don't know how to peel a potato. At least not as fast as Rose.”

“You surprise me, Miss Donovan.”

“It's a lot harder than it looks.”

He smiled. “I shall take your word for it. Sit down, Miss Donovan. Let us begin that list, shall we?”

The Duke identified at least two dozen men in a ten-mile area who fit the broad description of being affluent. They whittled that list down by eliminating men who rarely ventured outside the area. Jane Doe wasn't a local. Another handful of names were crossed out because the men were traveling abroad.

It was a tedious process, especially since she was the one writing the names down in a ledger by dipping pen in ink. She refused—absolutely
refused
—to think about her kick-ass laptop back in the twenty-first century.

By the time the Duke left for dinner, they had eight names, including Dalton and Morland. She noticed that his nephews, Alec and Gabriel, were absent from the list. There were all sorts of blind eyes, she thought.

Still, eight names wasn't a bad starting point.

Alone, she turned her attention to the two crude drawings she'd made yesterday. The marks she'd made depicting each wound couldn't begin to convey the horror that had been inflicted on Jane Doe. Without that brutal overlay to shock and distract, she could get a sense of the wounds themselves.

Unfortunately, there appeared to be no discernible pattern: fifty-three stab wounds in total. Usually a number that great would indicate a frenzied attack, with the blades puncturing the flesh in what was often a simulated sex act. But not in this case. This, as she'd told Sam Kelly, was methodic
cutting
. Terrible control and a terrible desire to inflict pain.

Did he do it to punish someone—ex-girlfriend, wife, mother—or simply because he was a sexual sadist? Or both?

She glanced up when the door swung open, and Lady Rebecca came into the room. The Lady was already dressed for evening in an empire-waisted blue gown with tiny pearls sewn into the bodice. The skirt was narrow, but that didn't stop Lady Rebecca from making brisk strides to stand before her. She carried an ivory fan that she thumped against her open palm in what Kendra could only conclude was a sign of extreme irritation.

“You think Alec is a murderer!”

Carefully, Kendra slipped the drawings into the ledger. “He told you that?”

“He finds it amusing. I do not!”

“I can see that. Look, whatever—”

“I shall tell you a story. I expect you've wondered about my face.”

“What? No,” Kendra said. “I mean, I assumed you had smallpox.”

“Yes. I contracted the affliction when I was seven.” She wandered around the room as she told her story, picking up and setting down objects she found. Nervous energy. “I am certain my parents measured me for a shroud. Many children of the same age died, you see. I don't know why I did not.” She fell silent, and shook her head. “I lived—but not without repercussions. As you can see.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I am not asking for your sympathy, Miss Donovan. Or pity.” Rebecca set down the figurine she held and deliberately moved over to where one of the oil lamps was burning, positioning herself so that the light slid mercilessly over her disfigured face, so that she was grotesque.

“Children can be cruel. I may be the daughter of an earl, but that doesn't guarantee friendship. It did not stop the teasing and name-calling. Alec defended my honor with his wits and sometimes, his fists. It did not stop the viciousness when he was absent, but he was my white knight.”

Kendra remembered the first morning, when Sarah had talked about getting sick because she had to sit opposite Rebecca. She suspected that the cruelty hadn't stopped with childhood, it had just become more underhanded. Human beings had an almost limitless supply of malice.

“I understand how protective you must feel toward Lord Sutcliffe,” she said slowly.

Rebecca waved that away impatiently. “Mayhap I
do
feel the need to come to his defense as he always came to mine. But that is not why I'm telling you this. A young lad—Alec was sixteen at the time—who has the compassion to rescue a little girl from the evil taunts of her playmates, to spend time with her to alleviate her loneliness, could never grow up to be the man, the
monster
, you have described.”

She walked to the slate board and stared at it for a few minutes before turning to look at Kendra. She used her fan as a pointer. “
This
is a man who hates women. This man could never have been the boy who provided succor to a young child in need.”

“I agree.”

Rebecca looked surprised. “You believe me?”

“It's not a question of me believing you. It's logistics. I saw Alec—Lord Sutcliffe—myself in this room on the night of the murder. It's highly unlikely that he'd have left here to torture and kill the girl.”

“Highly unlikely, but not impossible.”

“He fits the profile,” she conceded. “And I can't afford to let personal feelings”—she thought of the sharp tug of attraction she'd felt earlier—“stop me from doing my duty.”

“Apparently the duties of a maid are much more expansive in America,” Rebecca remarked drily, then let out a frustrated sigh. “I confess, Miss Donovan, that I am finding it difficult to believe that someone from my class did this horrendous thing!”

“No one wants to think that someone they know is capable of cold-blooded murder,” Kendra agreed, not without sympathy. “But we can't ignore the facts, either.”

Rebecca scowled. “Facts. You don't have any
facts
, Miss Donovan. You—we—only have supposition.”

“Based on deductive reasoning. We're looking for someone who has the means to hire a high-class prostitute, transport her to the country, and—”

“Yes, yes, we've already discussed this,” Rebecca waved her hand holding the closed fan impatiently. “You could be describing the Duke.”

“No. The Duke was here as well that night. We're also looking for a much younger man. Someone between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five.”

Rebecca stared at her. “How, pray tell, do you know that?”

“Age is the most difficult thing to identify with an unsub. However, what was done to that girl—both in luring her out and the killer's brutality—shows a level of sophistication. It takes time for this type of killer to develop their fantasies, which means the unsub isn't too young. At the same time, the longer an unsub gets away with his aberrant behavior, the more confident he becomes. And the more disorganized he becomes. The Duke is an older man. I believe if he were responsible, this wouldn't be the first time you would have found a dead woman in the area. We're dealing with someone who is comfortable, but not complacent with his success. Besides . . .”

“Besides . . . what?”

“I can't imagine the Duke hurting anyone,” she admitted, and laughed softly. “Which is the worst reason for ruling anyone out.”

Rebecca smiled. “As I happen to know the Duke, I agree. He is one of the kindest men on earth.” She glanced up at the portrait above the fireplace. “Did you know that his daughter was only a few years older than I? I've been told we were great playmates when we were infants. I do not remember her.” She wandered over to the ornate globe that came up to her waist, spinning it with her fingertips. “My father and the Duke were schoolmates at Eton and later Cambridge. They maintained their friendship. The Duke's my godfather, which is why I've spent so much time here at the castle.”

“Are your parents dead?”

“My, you are blunt, aren't you?” Rebecca laughed. “No. My parents are touring my father's sugar plantations in Barbados. The Duke—or rather, the countess—was kind enough to invite me to her house party. She has one every year at the end of the Season.”

“I see. And Alec—the marquess' parents?”

Rebecca's gaze sharpened, but she answered readily enough. “Both have passed. His mother was an Italian countess, Alexandria—a diamond of the first water. I heard Sutcliffe's father, Edward, fell in love with her at first sight while on his grand tour.
His
father—Duke's—was not happy when his youngest son brought home an Italian bride, no matter how fine her pedigree or how full her family coffers. Alexandria was beautiful, but she was not English.”

“You knew her?”

“No. She died before I was born. But I have seen portraits of her, and heard the tales, which are rather legendary. She had a fiery temperament and had rows against the Duke—not the current Duke, but his father.”

“I get it.”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, I understand. How'd she die?”

“A carriage accident. I've been told the marquis was inconsolable. And Alec, too.”

“I'm sure it wasn't good for Gabriel, either.” She thought of Alec's brother, and wondered if that was at the root of his drinking, his anger issues.

Rebecca lifted her brows. “Oh, Alexandria wasn't Gabriel's mother. A year or so after she died, the marquis remarried. Emily Telford. Very English. Very proper.” Rebecca made a face. “A high stickler if there ever was one. She was the youngest daughter of a viscount. I'm certain the Duke was ecstatic when his son married her, but he died less than a year later of some sort of fit. Then Sutcliffe's father died three years after siring Gabriel. Naturally, as the eldest son, Alec inherited the title and all the estates that were entailed. The marchioness and Gabriel had a town house in London, and Alec, I daresay, gave them a generous allowance in addition to what Lady Emily had from her own inheritance.”

Past tense. “The marchioness is no longer alive?”

“She passed away from consumption six years ago.”

“Is that when Gabriel started drinking?”

Rebecca's mouth tightened. “You
do
ask personal questions.”

“They may get even more personal.”

Rebecca stared at her for a moment, then shook her head. “I don't know what to make of you, Miss Donovan.” She sighed. “Gabriel's behavior is not that unusual for a young buck sowing his wild oats, you know.”

“Maybe, but he seems to be sowing more than wild oats. He seems to have some major issues.”

Rebecca's brow puckered. “Lady Emily was not an easy woman to be around. Alec . . . I remember she made his life miserable, as well, but he was away at Eton, then Cambridge. Gabriel was not so fortunate. I can't say I blame him for letting loose now.”

“What about Dalton?”

Rebecca frowned. “Mr. Dalton? I don't know very much about him other than he comes from good stock in Manchester. His father was a doctor. Mr. Dalton was an army surgeon until he inherited Halstead Hall, one of the neighboring estates.”

“He's not married?”

“Well . . .” She hesitated, giving Kendra an uncertain look.

“What?”

“'Tis nothing. Old gossip.”

“It could be important.”

“Mr. Dalton was married once. The
on dit
is his wife died after she fled the country with another man.” Rebecca saw the expression in Kendra's eyes and hurried on. “I know what you're thinking, Miss Donovan, but, as I said, that gossip is ancient history. Surely you cannot believe Mr. Dalton's tragedy has any bearing on this poor unfortunate girl's demise?”

“Ancient history is usually where a psychosis begins. The unsub has a problem with women.”

Rebecca looked uneasy. “Mr. Dalton isn't the only man who has had a runaway wife. The whole of England knows how shabbily Lady Caroline has treated her husband by publicizing her passion for Lord Byron.”

It still shook Kendra to have historical names thrown out so casually, a reminder that this wasn't a dream, that those long-dead figures were alive at this very moment.
Christ, I can't think about it.

“Dalton fits the profile. We need to find out more about his past. What about Morland?”

“Mr. Morland? His family has lived on the neighboring estate for generations—Tinley Park.”

“I need more information than that. Does he have family? Brothers? Sisters? Is he married? Ever been married?”

“Those are a lot of questions,” Rebecca murmured, moving to the sideboard. She poured a glass of claret, then cocked her head at Kendra. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you. Do you have answers to the questions?”

Rebecca eyed her over the rim of her wineglass. “For a maid, you are an imperious sort, aren't you?” Before Kendra could reply to that, she hurried on. “His grandfather passed a few years back. He was the Earl of Whilmont. His mother is still alive, but has become a recluse. He has no brothers or sisters, and to the best of my knowledge he has never been caught in the parson's mousetrap.”

“No scandal or skeletons in the closet?”

“I didn't say that.” Rebecca sipped her wine. “I don't know how this can be relevant since it happened so many years ago, but Lady Anne—Morland's mother—eloped with his father, who was an infantry man. The old earl was furious.”