A Murder in Time (33 page)

“What do you suppose the men do when the women are gone?” Kendra wondered when Rebecca handed her the glass.

Rebecca grinned. “Most likely habits that are frowned upon in a Lady's presence—blowing a cloud or taking snuff. Cursing freely. Discussing business. Especially now that the war with Boney and the colonies are finally at an end. Oh. Forgive me, Miss Donovan. Does it trouble you overmuch—the war between our two countries?”

“No. Why should it? We won.” T
wo hundred years ago.

“Yes, well. 'Twas a stupid war. Not the one against the French. Napoleon's a mad tyrant. I pray he stays on St. Helena.”

Kendra drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
I'm standing in a drawing room discussing Napoleon Bonaparte. Who is alive.
That made her head spin more than the wine.

“Tell me about Harris,” she said. “He doesn't strike me as a preacher.”

Rebecca made a face. “The Duke appointed Mr. Harris to the local vicarage as a favor to the Earl of Clarendale.”

“He mentioned that. Who is the Earl of Clarendale?”

“Mr. Harris is the youngest son of the Earl of Clarendale. The family has been punting on the River Tick for years, although Mr. Harris did manage to catch himself an heiress.”

“Really?” Kendra glanced in surprise in the direction of Mrs. Harris, who was sitting on the end of the gold damask sofa, trying to look inconspicuous, as if her yellow dress could merge with the gold damask and she could disappear altogether. “His wife's rich?”

“Her father's a wealthy wool merchant. He wanted entry into the world of the Ton. The estates are entailed, but the Clarendale family can trace their lineage back to King William.”

“In other words, her father sold her.”

Rebecca cocked her head and studied Kendra. “Is it any different in America? You may not have titled aristocracy, but I daresay there's no shortage of ambition—parents willing to use their daughters' looks to trade up in the world or flaunt their sons' pedigrees to make a good match with an heiress.”

Kendra thought of America, past and present. No, she couldn't deny that it wasn't any different. How else could you explain every sixty-year-old rock star marrying a nineteen-year-old supermodel with the blessing of her parents?

“You're right. Dynasties have been and will continue to be made one marriage at a time. But I think Mrs. Harris got the bad end of that deal.”

Across the room, one of the young ladies sat down at the harpsichord and began to play Johann Sebastian Bach's
Prelude in C major
. This, Kendra realized, was what people did before TV and the Internet: played cards and the piano, talked. Maybe that's why they drank so much.

“Why do you ask about Mr. Harris?” Rebecca asked.

Kendra shrugged. “He's the right age, lives in the area, and, if he has access to his wife's money, he has the means.”

“The moment he married his wife, he had access to her dowry,” Rebecca remarked dryly. “Still, Mr. Harris
is
married. Surely, he couldn't have committed such atrocities.”

“You think a marriage license stops a man from being a sociopath?”

“I think a wife would know if her husband was such a fiend.”

“You'd be surprised at the lengths wives will go to delude themselves, or to rationalize what may be occurring right under their nose.” She thought of all the cases where loved ones had lived under the same roof as the serial killer. Many were shell-shocked by the revelation; most refused to believe it until the evidence piled up. And even then, a few still needed a confession before they accepted the facts.

She glanced at Mrs. Harris, who sipped her wine quietly on the sofa and looked like she wanted to be anywhere but there.

“I can't imagine such willful ignorance,” Rebecca said, shaking her head.

The door opened, and the men came into the room. Their presence was like a jolt of electricity, energizing the women. Fans began fluttering. A few moved forward to intercept the new arrivals. A beautiful blonde—Lady Dover, Kendra remembered—glided over to Alec.

The Duke came toward them, although he was forced to stop here and there to politely converse with those who demanded his attention. When he finally managed to reach them, he smiled at Kendra.

“Miss Donovan, I hadn't the opportunity to speak with you earlier, but may I say now that you are in exceptional looks this evening. Lady Rebecca had the right notion, hiring you as her companion. This suits you.”

Kendra had to smile. “I don't think anyone here would agree with you.”

“'Tis a pity, but such is the way for those who are different, Miss Donovan. And you, most delightedly, are different. To quote Voltaire, ‘Our wretched species is so made that those who walk on the well-trodden path always throw stones at those who are showing a new road.'”

“If it's all the same to you, I'd rather avoid any stone-throwing. Especially if I'm the recipient of said stone-throwing.”

He laughed. “We'll try to make sure that does not happen.”

Try?
Kendra thought. She changed the subject. “Is there any way you can get word to the Bow Street Runner to check on a murder that happened in London five years ago?”

The Duke's smile disappeared. “What's this about?”

“Mrs. Harris mentioned a maid who was murdered nearby when they lived in London, on Sutton Street.”

Rebecca frowned. “You can't possibly think there might be a correlation to that crime and the girl in the lake? London is notorious for its criminal element.”

“That may be, but I'd still like to know the specifics of that crime, and if anyone was caught.” And since she couldn't pick up a phone or check out the Internet databases, she had to do it this way. The killer wasn't a novice; he'd been practicing somewhere.

The Duke regarded her steadily for several moments. “I tend to agree with Lady Rebecca, that it would seem an unlikely connection. Still, if you feel it necessary, I shall send word to Mr. Kelly.”

“Thanks.”

“Bertie.” Lady Atwood approached like an elegant yacht in full sail. Kendra's eyes were drawn to the enormous black ostrich feather that jutted out from the dark purple turban the woman wore. The countess hooked her arm through her brother's before giving Kendra and Rebecca a chilly nod. “Lady Rebecca . . . Miss Donovan.” She said that, Kendra thought, like she was coughing up a hair ball. “I need to borrow my brother for a game of whist.”

“Oh. I . . .” Aldridge shot a longing glance at the cloudless night sky beyond the open French doors, clearly intent on quietly escaping to observe the celestial heavens.

“One game, Bertie,” his sister insisted, and before he could protest again, she dragged him off to a card table.

They brushed past Alec, who was heading toward Kendra and Rebecca. He'd ditched the blonde, Kendra saw; the woman in question now stood alone, and not looking too happy about it.

Alec greeted Rebecca with an easy smile, then cocked a brow at Kendra. “I see you've changed your status yet again, Miss Donovan. One can only wonder what tomorrow will bring.”

“It was my decision to hire Miss Donovan.” Rebecca rapped him with her fan. “At least now she'll be able to mingle in polite society without raising eyebrows.”

“One has the impression that eyebrows are permanently raised when it comes to Miss Donovan,” he murmured. Still, he grinned at Rebecca, flicking her nose affectionately. “Hiring a maid to be your companion is simply not done, minx. As well you know.”

“The Ton has an amazingly short attention span, as well
you
know. And it helps having influential friends like the Duke . . . and you.” She smiled at him, and picked a minuscule piece of lint off his dark green velvet sleeve. “No one shall dare give myself or Miss Donovan the cut-direct with your patronage, Sutcliffe.”

Kendra was surprised to find herself growing annoyed. “You know, I'm not a complete idiot. I didn't drink out of the finger bowl at dinner, did I?”

Alec suppressed a grin as he flicked her a look. “Yes, I noticed. Your table manners were very pretty.”

“Gee, thanks.”

The tone was so sharp that he had to laugh. He looked at Rebecca. “Even so, I'd like to know the reason behind this unorthodox promotion.”

Rebecca tilted her chin. “'Tis simple. The man responsible for the atrocity allegedly walks among our class. I've made it possible for Miss Donovan to be in a position to converse with whomever necessary. The Duke is in agreement.”

Alec shifted his gaze back to Kendra, no longer smiling. “You shan't win any friends in your endeavor, Miss Donovan. You may even make enemies. This could become very dangerous.”

“It's already dangerous. One girl is dead,” Kendra reminded him flatly.

“And you believe you are the one to stop him?”

His tone was just incredulous enough to put her back up. “I'm the best chance you've got. I know what I'm doing. If you can't accept that . . .”

“What?”

“Then there won't be enough water in all of England to wash the blood off your hands, because more girls are going to die.”

26

The victim was decomposing.

Kendra had known that the girl couldn't be kept in the icehouse forever, but she still felt uneasy watching the simple pine box being lowered into the grave by thick ropes and four burly workmen. There was nothing more she could do, she reminded herself. The body wouldn't yield more evidence.

Kendra turned her attention to the meager gathering of mourners at the village cemetery: Alec, Rebecca, the Duke, the vicar and his wife, the constable, Morland, Dalton, Alec's brother Gabriel, and his friend, Captain Harcourt. The last two looked like they'd gone on a bender last night, given their bloodshot eyes and pasty complexions. The only thing that brought them out this morning was curiosity.

Maybe.
Sometimes murderers attended their victim's funeral; inserted themselves into investigations. It was something to consider.

Across the open grave, Mr. Harris read his bible passage. The breeze carried a hint of rain, fluttering the pages of the book in his hand and ruffling his dark hair. She'd heard that he'd objected to burying the victim in the village cemetery, given the suspicion that she was a prostitute. But the Duke had overruled him.

Mr. Harris finished reading and immediately turned to the Duke to exchange a few words. Beside him, Mrs. Harris bowed her head and waited.

She looked like a timid crow, Kendra thought, dressed in unrelenting black, from her veiled bonnet to her ebony shoes. As the vicar's wife, she probably had clothes set aside for funerals. Rebecca had explained earlier that she hadn't brought any mourning colors to the house party, and there was no time to dye dresses for the event. She wore her long brown velvet coat and a matching bonnet over a navy pinstriped frock, and loaned Kendra a cape of deep forest green and a lighter, apple green bonnet decorated with yellow silk roses, bows, and ribbons.

“We don't even know the name of the poor girl,” Rebecca murmured as everyone began walking through the ancient cemetery. “How can a soul be at peace without a name?”

“If there's such a thing as a soul, I'd think it would be more interested in justice. After all, the dead already know their names.”

Rebecca blinked at her. “You don't believe in eternal life, Miss Donovan?”

Kendra thought about the question. In truth, she'd never spent any time on what she'd considered to be a theological debate. Her entire focus had been on becoming an FBI agent and, afterward, on proving herself capable of handling whatever task was thrown her way.
Show no weakness.
That had become her own personal motto as she climbed the ranks, accomplished her goals. And in the field, when she'd dealt with death and its aftermath, there'd simply been no time to waste wondering if the victims were now in a better place. It had always been a race to capture the unsub before there were more victims.

Aware that Rebecca was staring at her, she shrugged. “I guess it always seemed pointless to speculate about something you can't prove or disprove.”

“I disagree. I find such speculation fascinating,” Rebecca began. She looked as though she wanted to continue the discussion, but broke off with a smile when Simon Dalton skirted several tombstones to approach them.

“Ladies.” He had his hat in his hands, and the wind teased his ash blond hair around his head as he smiled. “I'm delighted to see you, of course, although I would ask for a less solemn occasion.”

“Graciously said, Mr. Dalton. I had wondered if our company had begun to pall, as you were not at dinner last evening.” Rebecca gave him an arched look as they began walking again.

“Not at all, Lady Rebecca. The countess invited me, but I had a bit of trouble in the stables. A mare was foaling, and it was breech.”

“Oh, no. Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Both are doing well, thank you. You must come and see for yourself. Already he promises to be a champion Arabian like his sire. Strong legs, great hindquarters.”

“Is your plan to race him, sir?”

Kendra listened with half an ear as the two traded horse information. Horses weren't her thing. What she knew of racing came from meeting Sid the Greek, one of her informants, who spent most of his time at the racetrack—it seemed like a lifetime ago. Or a lifetime from now. God, time travel really screwed with one's syntax.

“I think we're boring Miss Donovan,” Dalton said suddenly, smiling at Kendra.

“Oh. Sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”

His expression turned somber. “Have you heard any news from the Runner?”

She met his gaze. Simple curiosity? Or something more? “We're following a couple of leads.”

“I see. Well, I pray that the thief-taker uncovers the identity of the madman. If I can assist in any way, you must let me know.”