“Marianne was beautiful, vivacious, and willful. She became enamored with a military officer stationed near our home in Dover, who, I believe, seduced her.” His mouth tightened. “Of course, I knew nothing until she wrote a letter explaining how she wished to petition for a divorce. Naturally, I returned home to salvage the marriage, but it was too late. She’d already left with the man.”
“My God . . . what of the scandal?” Aldridge wondered. “Did she care nothing of her reputation, much less your own?”
“As I said, she was willful. She and her lover fled to Geneva. I returned to my post and agreed not to fight the divorce. Marianne died before the petition went through. Her family sent me a letter to inform me of her death.”
“You never asked what happened?” Kendra pressed.
“No. What would be the point? ‘Twas too late.”
She studied him. “When did she die?”
“Five, almost six years ago. But we’d been estranged for almost a year prior to her death.”
“How long were you married until you separated?”
“Two years.” He looked at the Duke. “Really, sir, I have nothing more to say regarding my late wife. You, of all people, should understand how painful these memories can be.”
“Yes, Mr. Dalton. I am keenly aware of how painful memories can be,” Aldridge acknowledged, and exchanged a look with Kendra. “Are we finished, Miss Donovan?”
“Yes. Thank you for your time, Mr. Dalton.” She stood up. “I apologize for bringing up painful memories. It’s not personal.”
“Odd. It feels very personal to me.”
He escorted them to their carriage and stood watching as the coachman flicked the reins, and the carriage started down the drive.
Kendra looked across at the Duke. “When did Mr. Dalton inherit Halstead Hall?”
“Five years ago.”
“Hmm. The timing is interesting. He came here right around the time of his wife’s death. Right before the prostitutes began disappearing.” She glanced at Aldridge. “Do you believe that he doesn’t know how his wife died?”
“No. But there are many reasons why a man would lie about a runaway wife.”
That was probably true, Kendra reflected. Still, she wasn’t convinced that was why Dalton was lying, though. She went onto something else that troubled her. “He never asked who April Duprey was.”
“I’m cognizant of that fact, my dear. However, he knew a woman was found this morning. Most likely he made the connection.”
“Maybe.”
They lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Aldridge was the first to break it. “You appear to feel that the death of Mr. Dalton’s wife could have transformed him into this fiend who kills prostitutes for pleasure.”
“Not transformed. The unsub was . . . warped a long time ago. He had dark fantasies. As a child, he probably tortured and killed animals. Maybe even set fires. He was destructive. And then something set him off, a trigger of some kind that pushed him into making his terrible fantasies real.”
The Duke gazed at her, troubled. “How, Miss Donovan? How does a man become a monster?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. And she didn’t. Were serial killers born that way, or did they become that way? Scientists had uncovered the Monoamine oxidase Agene on the X chromosome—also known as the “Warrior Gene”—which was believed to predispose men toward violence. But not everyone who had the defective gene exhibited violence. There were also plenty of examples of serial killers who’d been abused, physically and mentally, during their formative years, yet not all children who suffered horrific abuse turned into serial killers. It was quite a conundrum.
“If Mr. Dalton is the fiend we seek, wouldn’t his wife’s infidelity and abandonment actually have been the thing that pushed him? Why would he wait two years until her death to become a monster?”
Kendra felt a shivery sensation, like the brush of a bony finger against her nape. “There’s another possibility,” she said slowly. “Mr. Dalton was in the army. He said he lived in Dover. We need to check with authorities there to see if any young girls went missing. If Dalton is our killer, London might not have been his only hunting ground.”
41
“Is this about the harlot in the forest?”
Kendra exchanged a glance with the Duke, before giving Harris her full attention. Moments before, the butler had escorted them into Harris’s darkly paneled study. The vicar had greeted Aldridge enthusiastically and offered the usual refreshments. The Duke had declined, explaining that they were not making a social call, which had prompted Harris to ask the question.
“Who told you about the woman in the forest?” Kendra asked carefully.
He’d been ignoring her presence, but now the vicar gave her a condescending look. “Why, everyone is talking about it. ’Tis the news around the village.”
“What exactly are they saying?”
“That another whore has been slain.” He shrugged. “And the Bow Street Runner is investigating, although he has returned to Town.”
Aldridge shifted in his seat. “Miss Donovan and I are assisting Mr. Kelly in his investigation.”
“Indeed? How so, sir?”
“Please don’t take offense, Mr. Harris, but we need to ask you about your whereabouts yesterday—and last Sunday evening.”
“I do not comprehend, sir . . .” Harris’s jaw loosened, and he regarded the Duke in astonishment. It was, Kendra thought, becoming a familiar look. “Are you, perchance, trying to connect me to the death of these whores, sir?”
“We’re not making any connection. We are conducting an investigation,” Kendra corrected. “It’s standard procedure to question anyone who may have had the means to commit the crime.”
Kendra remembered Harris’s stare—like she was a peculiar creature that had crawled out from beneath a rock—from the first dinner she’d attended with the gentry. “That is very insulting, Miss Donovan,” he said.
“It isn’t meant to be.”
“Why on earth would I do such a thing? Murder a whore?”
Kendra didn’t like how he kept calling the victim a whore. It might simply be the manner of speech particular to this era, but there was an undertone of contempt, like she’d been less than human. Though prostitutes, regardless of era, didn’t generate a lot of respect from their fellow citizens.
“You haven’t answered our question,” she pointed out. “Where were you yesterday?”
He looked down his nose at her. “I was writing my sermons, Miss Donovan. And I returned correspondence with my father. He is the Earl of Clarendale, you know.”
It was a reminder. He wasn’t a lowly vicar. He had connections.
“You were not at home when my nephew and Lady Rebecca came to call yesterday afternoon,” Aldridge put in, drawing the other man’s gaze.
Harris frowned. “No. They called in the afternoon. I was out riding. I often ride in the afternoon.”
“But not this afternoon?”
“No. I had other matters to attend to.”
Kendra asked the standard questions: Where did you go? What did you do? Did you meet anyone? See anyone?
No. No. No . . . Yes . . .
“I saw your hermit, Your Grace,” he drawled. “I forget his name.”
Kendra leaned forward. “You saw Thomas?”
Harris shrugged, as if he couldn’t be bothered with such details. “He was in the woods. We didn’t cross paths. I don’t know if he saw me.”
It wasn’t really an alibi, Kendra thought. Even if Thomas could corroborate seeing the vicar, it only meant Harris had been out riding. But there was also the possibility that the vicar wasn’t the only one Thomas had seen in the woods. She made a mental note to visit the hermit again.
“What about last night and last Sunday evening?”
“Last Sunday evening, my wife and I were at the castle. ’Twas the first night of Lady Atwood’s house party.”
“What time did you leave?”
&n
bsp; “When the other guests departed—half past nine, I believe.”
“What did you do after you left the party?”
“We returned home. And retired for the evening.”
“Your wife can verify that?” asked Kendra.
“My wife sleeps in her own bedchamber as I do mine,” he said stiffly.
She’d forgotten about the upper class custom of this era to sleep in separate bedrooms. “What about last night?”
He gave her a cold look. “We did not deviate from the norm, if that is what you are asking, Miss Donovan.”
She switched subjects. “How often do you go to London?”
He looked puzzled by the question, but shrugged. “Rarely. I find the city vulgar.”
“Do you know a woman named April Duprey?”
“No. Is she the whore found in the forest this morning?”
“She’s the woman found murdered and dumped in the forest this morning.”
His eyes were expressionless as he stared at Kendra. “I did not realize she had been identified.”
“Yes, Mr. Kelly recognized her. That’s a bit of good news, isn’t it?” The Duke’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, which remained watchful. “It’s only a matter of time before we identify the killer.”
Harris picked an infinitesimal piece of lint off his sleeve, looking bored. Either he was a damn good actor or he was innocent.
“Good,” he drawled. “Then we ought to be able to put this disturbing incident behind us.”
42
“So much for the idea of the kindhearted vicar,” Kendra remarked sarcastically. They had settled in the carriage for the short ride home, but she couldn’t contain her anger any longer.
“Pardon?”
“What’s up with that guy? He’s . . .” An asshole, she wanted to say. “He’s not exactly empathetic, is he?” she said instead. “He’s a pastor. Women have died. Where’s his compassion?”
Aldridge frowned. “He is not a vicar by choice, Miss Donovan, but by circumstance. There are very little acceptable employment options open to younger sons of the aristocracy. It’s either the military or the clergy. His father, the Earl of Clarendale, asked me to appoint him to the vicarage here, not wanting him involved in the conflict with Boney. I saw no reason to deny him, although I fear you are correct about his lack of compassion for these Unfortunate Women. ’Tis troubling.”
It would be even more troubling if Harris was responsible for their murders, Kendra thought. The Duke must have been thinking the same thing, because his expression turned dark, almost forbidding further discussion. They lapsed into an uneasy silence until the carriage came to a halt outside the steps of the castle.
The Duke of Aldridge chose one of the smaller drawing rooms in which to conduct the interviews with Captain Harcourt and Gabriel. It was comfortable rather than imposing, done in warm burgundy and muted grays. The footmen had been in to light the wall sconces, candles, and fireplace, which cast the entire room in a rosy glow.
Captain Harcourt was the first interview, and he came in with an expression that was polite but quizzical. Being summoned to privately meet with the Duke was both a privilege and a puzzle.
“You wished to speak with me, Your Grace?”
“Yes. I hope you are enjoying my sister’s house party?”
“It would be impossible not to enjoy the festivities. Lady Atwood is a highly skilled hostess.”
“Having two dead women murdered in the vicinity probably casts a pall on the revelries,” Kendra said dryly.
Harcourt hesitated, shooting her a wary look, but nodded. “Yes. ’Tis dreadful.”
Aldridge said, “Please sit down, Captain. Would you like something to drink?”
“A whiskey, thank you, sir.”
The Duke poured a glass, and brought it over to the young man. “Miss Donovan? Do you wish anything?”
“No, thank you.”
Aldridge settled himself into the wingback chair near Harcourt, and fixed his gaze on the man. “I’m certain you are aware that we are investigating the death of those two women.”
“Yes, sir. I heard talk.”
“Then you are also aware that the investigation forces us to ask awkward questions. I must ask you where you were last Sunday evening, and again yesterday afternoon and evening?”
“Yesterday I was in the grouse-hunting party,” the captain answered promptly. He showed none of the insult that the other gentlemen had at being viewed as a possible murderer. But his social position was the lowest. Kendra suspected that made him more forthcoming, eager to cooperate.
“Major Edwards and Mr. Smythe can attest to the fact that I was with them,” he continued. “Last evening . . . I was here, of course. I did not leave the castle.”
“Thank you, Captain Harcourt. I understand that you and my nephew went to Hawkings’s cockfight last Sunday after the dinner here at the castle. Yet we cannot verify whether or not you stayed the entire evening.”
“Yes. Last Sunday was a terrible crush.”
Kendra asked, “So you stayed the length of the cockfight?”
Something flickered in Harcourt’s gaze. “Yes.”
He’s lying. Kendra’s eyes narrowed. “And you were with Lord Gabriel the entire time?”
He frowned, dropping his gaze to the drink in his hand.
“That answer really shouldn’t require that much thought. A simple yes or no.”
He looked up at her. “Not the entire time, no. As I said, it was a crush. ’Tis easy to become separated.”
“Did my nephew join the grouse-hunting yesterday?”
Harcourt shifted his attention to the Duke. “We rode out together, but he did not feel quite the thing. He returned to the castle.”
“Alone?” Kendra wondered.
“Yes.”
“So you don’t know if he actually returned to the castle?”
“I had no reason to doubt him. He did not look well.”
Kendra nodded. Leaning back, she gave the Duke a look, then said, “Thank you for your time, Captain Harcourt. I hope we did not inconvenience you too terribly.”
“I may go?”
“Unless you have something else to add?”
“No.” Harcourt got to his feet, gulped down the whiskey, and set the glass on a nearby side table. “Thank you, sir.” He glanced at Kendra. “Miss.”
Once alone, Aldridge said, “It will not be difficult to ascertain whether the captain remained with the grouse-hunting party yesterday. I found his manner about Sunday evening, however, evasive.”
“I agree. There’s something he’s hiding about that night. Maybe Lord Gabriel will shed some light on it.” Kendra was actually eager to interview Alec’s younger brother. He possessed the most volatile temperament, which meant he’d be the most susceptible to pressure. If she applied just the right amount, she might even get some answers.
Harcourt was right: Gabriel did not look well. His complexion had a pale gray cast, his eyes sunken and bloodshot. As he entered the drawing room, he shot Kendra a sullen look, as though blaming her for his uncle’s summons. Then he ignored her.
“Sir? You wished to speak with me?”
“Miss Donovan and I shall need to ask you a few questions. Please sit down, my boy.”
Kendra watched as Gabriel flicked a hungry glance at the decanters on the side table. Then he swallowed hard and obeyed the command by slouching on the sofa opposite Kendra and the Duke.
“Where were you yesterday afternoon?” she asked abruptly.
He gave her a baleful look. “Who are you to question your betters, Miss Donovan?”
“I am giving Miss Donovan the authority to conduct these interviews, Gabriel,” Aldridge said sharply.
“I apologize, Your Grace. But this is quite preposterous! Do you really believe I am responsible for the dead whores? That is what this is about, is it not? ’Tis madness!”
Kendra eyed him. “Why don’t you want to answer the question?”
“Be
cause it is none of your damn business!”
“Gabriel!”
Gabriel surged to his feet. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and began to pace. Kendra recognized nervous energy mixed with anger. And something else. Desperation.
“I went grouse hunting,” he said.
“We were told you left the hunt early.”
He glared at Kendra. “I was unwell.”
“You returned to the castle?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“I did not observe the time.”
“Early afternoon? Late afternoon?”
“Bloody hell, I don’t know. Late afternoon, I suppose.”
“Did you leave the hunt and come immediately back to the castle?” Gabriel’s sudden stillness had Kendra narrowing her eyes at him. “Don’t lie. We’ll find out the truth.”
He scowled. Then gave a jerky shrug. “I did not return immediately. I went to the lake.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
The Duke gave a sigh. “Gabe, what did you do at the lake?”
Gabriel raked a hand through his hair, leaving it even more disheveled. He shot Kendra another dirty look as he paced. “Not a bloody thing! ’Tis a pleasant spot for reflection.”
That pleasant spot was a crime scene a week ago, Kendra thought. She regarded him for a moment, then, coming to a decision, she stood. “What about the previous Sunday night when you said you went to the cockfight. Where did you really go?”
“I went to the cockfight!”
She moved in closer, until she was only a foot away from him, her eyes trained on his. He crossed his arms, an instinctive gesture, Kendra knew, against her invading his space. It was a technique favored by law enforcement during interrogations. It gave the interviewer the upper hand, a position of dominance, and it put the suspect on edge, made him more likely to talk.
She shook her head, and inched in closer. “No. I don’t think so.” She could see the sweat filming his brow. “You may have gone there, but you didn’t stay there. Where did you go?”
A Murder in Time Page 32
