A Murder in Time (20 page)

“You seem remarkably well-informed, ah . . . ?” That was from the tall, russet-haired gentleman standing next to the Duke. He was handsome—not quite in Alec's league, but there was something compelling about his dark blue eyes in the tanned, raw-boned face as he stared down at her.

“Kendra Donovan. I've had some experience.”

He lifted an incredulous brow. “In murder? Forgive me, but you are a woman. A maid!”

“So?” Since that response seemed to flummox him, Kendra went back to studying the dead girl. “I suspect we'll find the hyoid bone and the thyroid and cricoid cartilages compressed from manual strangulation.” She glanced up at Simon Dalton. “And look at the eyes, Doctor—subconjunctival and petechial hemorrhage.”

Surprisingly, he flushed. “I'm not a physician; I'm a
surgeon
.”

She frowned. What the hell was the difference?

“I noticed,” he continued, in response to her observation, and then explained to the group at large, “Petechiae is when the blood vessels around the eye rupture due to asphyxiation.”

Alec scowled. “Does anybody recognize her? Is she from the area?”

Flies, ever in tune with the scent of death, began to arrive. Alec waved his hand impatiently to disperse them, a temporary reprieve, as they simply buzzed back in greater numbers.

The men surged forward to get a better look at the dead girl. Kendra got the impression that it was curiosity that drove them, not a desire to help. One of the young men made a noise low in his throat and stumbled back.

“Watch it, Gabriel!” another man grumbled, pushing lightly at him.

“Have you seen her before?” Kendra asked Gabriel sharply. He looked to be around her age, good-looking with tousled dark brown hair and hazel eyes. His reaction could've been the shock of seeing a dead body. Or something else.

“No . . . No . . .” Gabriel moved away. As Kendra watched, he reached into his coat and pulled out a silver flask, unscrewing the lid and drinking deeply. Judging by his flushed face and somewhat glassy eyes, she suspected this wasn't the first time he'd used the flask today.

Alec was watching, too. “Try avoid getting foxed, Gabe.”

The younger man stiffened, shooting Alec such a blistering look that Kendra was surprised she couldn't feel the heat of it.

“It's difficult to tell . . . but she doesn't appear familiar,” Aldridge murmured, rubbing the back of his neck as though it ached. “No word has gone around about a missing girl. Have you heard anything, Morland? The local magistrate is usually the first to hear such things.”

“Eh?” The man with the russet hair—Morland—gave a start, then shook his head. “No, Your Grace. I've heard nothing.”

Aldridge stared down at the girl somberly. “Somebody had to have been mad with rage to strangle this poor child and throw her into the river.”

Kendra hesitated, chest tightening. Again, she considered letting this go, just agreeing with whatever they said . . . dammit. She
couldn't
.

“This wasn't rage,” she said slowly. “It was calculated. Cold and calculated. The man who did this did it deliberately.”

Again there was a stunned silence. Then the man named Morland demanded, “What the devil are you saying?”

“I'm saying this girl wasn't just strangled. She was strangled
repeatedly
. The pattern of bruising round the neck is large, irregular, meaning he strangled her and then allowed her to breathe again. He then brought his hands back, the position slightly different—see?” She pointed to the irregular shadowy smudges around the victim's throat. “And he strangled her again. And again.”

Morland glared at her. “That is utterly preposterous!
Who
are you? Really, sir.” He turned to the Duke. “You can't expect us to swallow such a preposterous tale. And from a mere servant . . . from a . . . a
woman!
”

Kendra had to bite back a scathing reply.
This is not my era
, she reminded herself. If they didn't believe her, she'd have to let it go.

Still, her mouth felt dry as she shifted her gaze to the Duke of Aldridge. His brow was furrowed, but she couldn't read him. Would he dismiss her findings because she was a woman?

He shook his head. “'Tis not the time to argue about it, Morland. We need to do something with this poor girl.”

Kendra let out the breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding. He wasn't calling her crazy.
Yet.

That test would come when she told the Duke what she knew, what she suspected.

She could only pray that he'd believe her.

Kendra hung back while they discussed where to bring the body—the castle's icehouse was the final consensus. Then they had to figure out the best way to get her there. It was finally decided that a couple of footmen would carry her to the clearing, and a wagon would transport the victim the rest of the way to the castle.

The process was cumbersome. First, the remaining footmen were squeamish about touching the body any more than they had to. They balked at her suggestion that they relinquish their fancy livery coats to wrap around the victim, and only did so after Alec ordered them.

Kendra couldn't really blame them. Hell, she wasn't happy with the situation either. It didn't matter that this wasn't the kill site, or that the body had been washed thoroughly by the river and lake, or the fact that even if she could find some trace evidence, she didn't have the equipment or forensics experts to give her the answers that she needed. She still kept track of every forensic violation that was made.

“We must summon the local constable,” the Duke said as they began their trek back through the forest.

Alec snorted. “Much good that'll do. The worst Roger Hilliard has had to face is catching a poacher now and then, and breaking up fights between farmers, because a cow got into somebody's field and ate their bloody grain.”

“So . . . in terms of law enforcement, you only have a local constable?” Kendra asked, the sinking feeling in her stomach getting worse.

“Morland's the magistrate,” someone pointed out.

Alec scowled. “You don't have any experience in this matter either, Morland.”

Kendra caught the flash of anger in Morland's eye. Alec wouldn't win points for diplomacy, but she silently agreed with him. None of them had any experience in this matter.

Except for her.

“What do you suggest, Sutcliffe?” the other man challenged. “Bring in a Bow Street Runner?”

Alec's jaw tightened. “Perhaps.”

“I don't like bringing in someone from the outside,” Morland scowled.

Both the sentiment and the sour tone nearly made Kendra smile. It was almost exactly the same words, certainly the same inflection, that she'd heard from countless cops when the FBI was called in to investigate homicides. Maybe things weren't so different here after all.

Then she remembered what Morland had said to the Duke.
You can't expect us to swallow such a preposterous tale. And from a mere servant . . . a woman.

It wasn't like she hadn't faced discrimination before. But dealing with a stubborn local sheriff or a surly police officer who resented the FBI's input—whether she was a woman or not—was a far different situation than
this
. She shivered suddenly, rubbing her arms.

“Are you all right?”

Kendra glanced up at Alec, surprised by the concern she heard in his voice. “I've had better days.”

His mouth curved at her dry tone, but the smile was fleeting. He reached out automatically to hold the tree branches back from slapping her in the face. The action was surprisingly chivalrous.

“There's no need to be afraid, Miss Donovan,” he assured her, surprising her even more. “You'll be safe at the castle.”

Kendra blinked. He was, she realized, actually trying to be nice. Except he didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

Some things weren't so different in this time line. In fact, some things, she thought, never changed. Like murder. And monsters.

“You're wrong, you know,” she said solemnly. “We should be afraid . . . because it's going to happen again.”

13

The icehouse was a large, low, windowless building of gray stone, with its entry point—thick oak double doors—facing north. The squat appearance was deceptive, Kendra realized, as they went through another set of doors that led down, below ground level. It was clever, making use of the earth to keep the temperature cool. There were four rooms, the largest being where the ice itself was stored, giant slabs that had been cut from lakes and ponds during the winter months and carted here to be stored year-round.

The other three chambers had a variety of uses. Two were used for storing perishables like milk and butter, and vegetables. The third, the one they crowded in, was obviously where the fresh game hunted on the estate was skinned and deboned. A handful of pheasant and quail, and several rabbits hung by their feet on hooks in the ceiling, near the white tiled wall at the far end of the room. Though lanterns had been strung around the room, thick shadows seemed to crouch and wait in the corners. The air smelled of smoke, earth, gamey meat, and raw blood.

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.”