A Murder in Time (37 page)

“Fifteen to eighteen, or thereabouts.”

“Similar to our victim.” She nodded, and wrote the additional information on the board. “What was the time frame that the girls went missing?”

“The first bit o' muslin went missing four years ago. The most recent was two months ago.”

“What months?”

Sam stared at her. “Why would that matter, if you don't mind me askin'?”

“Details, Mr. Kelly. Every detail is important. It could move us closer to identifying the unsub or at least—”

“What's an unsub?” the detective interrupted, perplexed.

The Duke answered. “Unknown subject. Is that not correct, Miss Donovan?”

“Yes.” She had to smile. There was no denying the Duke's intelligence. “As I was saying, gathering details about the victims will help us establish the killer's patterns. Eleven girls in four years—does that mean three girls a year? How long between disappearances?” Kendra scanned her audience. It wasn't just Aldridge; they were all intelligent. But how much to say? How much would they accept?

“It's typical of this type of killer to have a cooling-off period,” she said finally. “They've satisfied their need . . . but it's temporary.”

There was a short, stark silence as they absorbed that implication.

Sam lifted his brows. “You mean ter say that after the villain has killed, he takes his time before he kills again?”

“Yes. And he
will
kill again. He has to.”

“Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“There are many theories.”
Too many
, she thought. “Suffice to say that we could argue endlessly as to why he does what he does. Point of fact is that he does it. We need to stop him before he can do it again.”

“Patterns,” murmured Aldridge. “If determining his pattern will assist us in stopping this monster, we are obliged to do so. Proceed, Mr. Kelly.”

“Aye, sir.” He drew out a sheaf of papers from the pocket of his overcoat, unfolding them across his lap.

“Yvette—I doubt that's her real name, mind you—was the first lass ter go missing, in—let's see—February 1812,” he read, and his eyes narrowed. “She was fifteen. Then Sofia, also fifteen, in June of that year—Saturday, the thirteenth. Mary, seventeen, disappeared in October, around the sixteenth. In 1813, Clara, eighteen, vanished in February—Friday, the twelfth; Elizabeth, fifteen, June the thirteenth; Matilda, seventeen, on October eighth. Not another chit until the next February—Saturday, the twelfth, and . . . by God . . .”

He scanned the papers he held and then lifted his gaze to Kendra. “They're all in those months. Every disappearance. February, June, and October. What does it mean?”

“Patterns,” Aldridge repeated softly.

“The madman is taking a girl every four months!” Rebecca's eyes darkened with horror.

Alec scowled, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he regarded them. “Wait a bloody moment. I think everyone needs to remember that this is still conjecture. We can't be certain these girls are dead, or that they didn't leave by their own accord, despite their apparently rather abrupt departures.”

Aldridge shook his head. “No, Alec. The odds suggest the disappearances of these women are related.”

“Mr. Kelly admitted that he didn't go to every brothel. There could be even more missing girls in the same months or different months than the ones we know about,” Kendra conceded with a frown.

“We covered a lot of ground, miss, including a few of the lower establishments. Not every academy had missing lasses. Just them here.” Sam lifted the sheaf of papers he held.

“If this pattern is correct,” Alec began, and by the tone of his voice, he wasn't buying it completely, “then the assailant broke it with this girl, as the month is August—not October.”

Cold dread shivered up Kendra's spine. “You're right. His cooling-off period just became shorter.”

“Whatever does that mean?” Rebecca asked, frowning.

“Three girls per year aren't enough anymore. He's escalating.”

31

Kendra wrote down each missing girl's name, accompanied with the pertinent information of their ages, and the month they'd gone missing. Afterward she stood back and surveyed the slate board. She might not have each girl's photograph pinned up on a murder board, but the names, filling one entire column, were eerie reminders that lives most likely had been lost.

Everyone seemed to feel the same. For several minutes, no one said anything.

Then Kendra looked to the Duke. “Could we get a map of London? I'd like to identify the location of the brothel where each of these girls worked.”

“That can be arranged. I assume you are looking again for patterns?”

Cluster analysis
, she thought wistfully. In the twenty-first century, sophisticated computerized models would replace paper maps and pushpins. But nothing was stopping her from using the old-fashioned approach.

“If a pattern emerges, we could learn his comfort zone.” She shrugged. Every bit helped. She shifted her gaze to Sam. “Did you find out anything about the maid killed on Sutton Street five years ago?”

“Five years is a long time, Miss Donovan. And London is fair ter burstin' with cutthroats. I had one of me men talk ter the local watch, but . . .” He shook his head. “Nobody much recalled the maid who died.”

It had been a long shot, she knew. Since there was no official police force, there'd be no official police files. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as she thought about the next step. She knew what it was. She also knew no one would like it.

“The Duke and I have compiled a list of men fitting the profile who live within a ten-mile radius,” she finally said. “It's a starting point—”

“Pardon, miss, but why?” Sam interrupted. “Why ten miles? She got caught in the river's current. She could've floated a long way.”

Kendra shook her head. “Jane Doe had sustained considerable damage, but I believe it would've been much greater if the body had traveled farther downstream. In fact, I don't even think the body floated ten miles. I decided to err on the side of caution when I developed that parameter. I think we're actually looking at a fairly tight parameter, probably much closer to where Jane Doe ended up in the lake.”

She waited for Sam to object. But the detective nodded. “Aye. That's sound thinking, miss.”

She continued, “As I said, we considered men that fit the general profile—affluent, between twenty-five and forty-five. That's when this type of killer hits their prime. The Duke and I then eliminated anyone who is not a landowner or doesn't have access to property. We further narrowed the field by removing all the locals who never or rarely visited London. Finally, we crossed off any men who aren't currently in residence because they're traveling abroad. That leaves us with eight possibilities within the ten-mile radius. We need to find out where they were on the night of the murder.”

“'Tis a process of elimination—a logical approach.” The Duke nodded in approval.

Sam gave Kendra a thoughtful look. “'Tis an approach that's worked well for the Runners.”

“Since Mr. Dalton has no alibi for the time in question, I assume he must remain on your list of suspects,” Rebecca commented, earning a surprised glance from Sam.

“You actually asked the guv—er, the gent where he was on the night of the murder?”

“No. Miss Donovan made the inquiry. I fear he was displeased.”

“Imagine that,” Alec murmured.

Kendra ignored the sarcasm. “I'd like to check into Mr. Dalton's background. His wife left him for another man—I'd like to learn more about that, and about what she looked like.”

Sam eyed her curiously. “You think she may resemble the lasses?”

“May have, past tense. Mr. Dalton's wife died—another thing to be explored. How'd she die? And when?”

“I'll have one of me men look at Mr. Dalton's background,” Sam agreed.

“His family is from Manchester,” the Duke told him.

“Thank you, sir. I'll send someone up north ter make inquiries.” Sam rubbed his nose. “I can return ter London Town ter continue my inquiries at the brothels, but I'd just as soon stay here ter help with the investigation. If you're interviewing the gents, I can talk ter the servants and like.”

“You might want to start at the King's Head,” Alec said abruptly.

Kendra stared at him in surprise. She hadn't expected him to volunteer that information.

His gaze was cool as he met hers. “I don't believe my brother committed these atrocities, Miss Donovan, and I intend to prove it by having his alibi confirmed. I won't have his reputation besmirched by the vile suspicion that he is a killer.”

Aldridge leaned forward, looking at both of them. “Gabriel? What does he have to do with this business, pray tell?”

“He and Captain Harcourt left the castle after the dinner on Sunday evening to attend Hawkings's cockfight,” Alec told his uncle. “If you recall, the publican has a cockpit behind his tavern.”

“Yes. I had not realized they left the castle that night. But surely you don't think Gabriel—”

Kendra cut him off sharply. “No one can be ruled out unless they have a verifiable alibi.” She was afraid, she realized, very afraid that they'd let their personal bias dictate the investigation. She couldn't let that happen.

Aldridge frowned at her. “It is entirely plausible that Gabriel is telling the truth, my dear. I am not an admirer of the blood sport of cockfighting. 'Tis gruesome business to watch an animal literally peck the eyes out of another. But I understand it is a lucrative venture for Hawkings. Many attend. There is no reason to think Gabriel did not.”

“I'm not thinking anything. That's my point. We must approach this rationally rather than subjectively.”

“What about being presumed innocent until proven guilty, as Sir William Garrow so eloquently argued?” Rebecca asked. “Should we not give Lord Gabriel the benefit of the doubt?”

“He's not on trial. We're . . .” Kendra didn't know what to say.
Law enforcement
? Only she and Sam Kelly belonged to that group. And she still wasn't entirely sure about Sam Kelly's position. He seemed to understand basic police procedure, but Bow Street Runners were paid by their clients, not the citizenry of the town they were sworn to serve and protect. At the moment, he was being paid by Aldridge. Because of that, he might not be entirely objective when he dealt with the Duke's nephew.

“I'm feelin' a might thirsty for a good English ale,” Sam declared suddenly, and stood up, effectively ending the argument. “I think I'll go ter the King's Head.”

“Very good, Mr. Kelly.” After the Runner left, Aldridge searched his desk until he found the list of names tucked in the ledger. “Now we must go over the names again. Mayhap Alec and Rebecca will have suggestions . . .” He spread the foolscap in front of him. “Then we will divide up the names between us, and conduct the interviews. Does that meet with your approval, Miss Donovan?”

It would have to.

32

The coach was luxurious. April Duprey had to admire that, her sharp eyes automatically calculating the cost of the plush, red-velvet interior, and the seat cushions and pillows that were gold trimmed, tufted, and tasseled. And she couldn't help but appreciate the carriage's excellent springs. She'd noticed the smoothness of the ride in London, automatically comparing it to the cheaper hackneys and carriages that she used. No doubt about it, she was dealing with Quality.

After nearly four hours of traveling, however, she was no longer impressed. Even the coach's excellent springs couldn't disguise the roughness of the country roads, and the swaying and jolting of the coach left her feeling slightly queasy. She pressed a gloved hand to her stomach, and prayed that it wouldn't be much longer before she reached her destination.

As though in answer to her prayer, the coach began to slow, then turn. She stifled a groan when the coach lurched forward again, the ride increasingly bumpy as the wheels hit rocks and ruts, forcing her to grip one of the brass handrails near the door.

Her patience worn thin, she silently cursed the gentry, who issued orders with no thought to the comfort of the likes of her. Initially, she'd been delighted when she'd received such a prompt response to her letter, and had obeyed the contents of that letter without argument. He'd send for her, he said. A private carriage, he said, to take her into the country, where they could meet.

He'd asked that she keep the drapes closed during the journey. It was an odd request, but she'd shrugged it off. After all, she'd made a career out of servicing the odd requests from gentlemen. Still, she'd disliked staying in the gloomy carriage when they'd made their one stop at the mail-coach inn to feed and water the horses, and she'd resented the silent coachman as he went about his business without once opening the door to see about
her
needs or to acknowledge
her
company. It was one thing to be ignored by Quality; it was another to be ignored by her own class.

After that, her mood had turned sour. Once, she'd defiantly flipped open the heavy velvet drapes to look outside. Not that there was much to look at: forests and rolling green hills dotted by the occasional thatched house. She'd eyed the open countryside with the discomfort only a born and bred Londoner could feel, preferring the congested streets and familiar grime-coated buildings of Town.

Now she became aware of a change. Again, the horses were slowing. She twitched the curtains to peer outside. On the other side of the paned glass, the dense trees that crowded alongside the lane, the dark branches and green leaves stretching across the road in a canopy effect, seemed closer. As though when she wasn't looking, the woods had crept nearer, hemming her in. She shivered and dropped the curtain, half-remembered stories of evil wood elves, sprites, and mischievous fairies flitting through her mind.