“Shallow knife wound,” he observed.
“It’s not a defensive wound,” Kendra felt compelled to add. How much did he understand about forensic pathology? How much did anyone in this century?
Munroe regarded her through his Harry Potter glasses. “I am aware of defensive wounds, Miss Donovan.”
“Oh.”
He turned back to the body. “In fact, there appear to be no defensive wounds. The attacker clearly surprised her, and she ran. The palms of her gloves are heavily soiled, indicating that she fell several times during her ordeal. Her palms are abraded. This corresponds with the area of the glove that is most heavily soiled.”
Kendra had to admit that she was impressed by the doctor’s thoroughness in his visual examination. He used the tweezers to pick off more debris from the bodice and skirt, and carefully inspected the foot with the missing shoe. With the help of Alec and Sam, he turned the body over to make the same detailed journey from that angle.
“There appears to be some sort of discoloration across the upper part of her pelisse, spanning the right shoulder blade.” He examined it through the magnifying glass, asking Kendra to move the lantern closer. “Dark gray in coloration. It does not appear to be a soil stain, though. I must examine the fabric under a microscope to reach any sort of conclusion.”
“You are welcome to use my laboratory, Dr. Munroe.”
“Ah. Thank you, Your Grace. Now I shall need assistance in disrobing the woman.” He slanted a glance at Kendra. “Miss Donovan, you may wish to depart if you feel your sensibilities will be affected by the next phase of my examination.”
“I know what a naked woman looks like, Doctor.” She set down the lantern. “I’ll help you.”
The pelisse was easy enough to strip off, as were the stockings. They were forced to cut away the rest of the clothes, which Kendra folded carefully and placed on the wooden table after Munroe matched the wounds on the body with the corresponding tears and slices in the fabric.
“Miss Duprey was fully clothed when she was killed.”
Aldridge arched a brow at the doctor. “Was there any doubt?”
Kendra said, “The killer could’ve dressed her afterward.”
Munroe nodded approvingly. “Quite right, Miss Donovan. There can be no doubt—now—that she was fully clothed when she was killed. In my work, I’ve found it is best not to make assumptions regarding what may seem obvious.”
They returned to their inspection of the dead woman. Her knees were black and blue, and swollen from the impact of falling. Her right ankle was also distended, and, Munroe determined, broken. Kendra suspected the injury had come at the end. She imagined April Duprey had fallen one last time.
“Miss Duprey died as the result of a single knife wound. The blade entered her chest cavity, most likely piercing her heart. There’s bruising surrounding the injury, consistent with marks made by the hilt of a knife.” Munroe meticulously measured the entrance wound. “The blade appears to have been one-inch in width, but an internal examination will better determine the width, as well as the length. Again, Miss Donovan, I will ask you—”
“I’m staying.”
“Very well.”
Kendra had attended countless autopsies before, and this one—despite the lack of electrical saws, high-tech tools, stainless steel, and overall sterile atmosphere prevalent in her own time—was surprisingly similar, beginning with the standard Y-shaped incision curved beneath the breasts toward the breast bone, bisecting the body to the pubic bone. Familiar, too, was the stench of decay and blood and internal gases that wafted up from the cadaver.
Despite the cool temperature of the room, a fine film of sweat gathered on Munroe’s brow as he worked to open the woman’s rib cage with pruning shears, allowing him access to the internal organs. Once again Kendra was surprised and impressed by the doctor’s painstaking approach. She’d known medical examiners in the twenty-first century who were less thorough.
“The blade was approximately five inches long. Double-edged. Most likely a hunting knife or dagger of some kind,” he said, carefully inspecting the organs with measuring instruments. “The attacker thrust the knife into the chest, angling the weapon in an upward motion, which punctured the victim’s heart. She died of cardiac tamponade.”
The Duke crowded closer to examine the organ. “I am unfamiliar with the term. What exactly is cardiac tamponade, Doctor?”
“It is the process where blood fills the pericardium—the membrane surrounding the heart. ’Tis what prevented her heart from pumping.”
“Fascinating.”
Kendra said, “I don’t know who was luckier—the killer or April Duprey.” When the men stared at her, she shrugged. “It’s actually not that easy to kill someone with a knife. The fact that it was only one knife wound suggests the killer got lucky. One thrust, and April Duprey was a goner. On the other hand, her death was relatively quick, probably within minutes. If she hadn’t died immediately, I don’t think the killer would’ve stopped stabbing her.”
Munroe raised his brows. “An interesting hypothesis, Miss Donovan. You appear to be an expert on the heart.”
Kendra stiffened, immediately on the defensive. “The only thing I know about the heart is that it beats approximately one hundred thousand times daily. And it doesn’t like pointy things stuck in it.”
The doctor’s eyes behind the round glasses gleamed with amusement. “I wasn’t criticizing you, Miss Donovan. You are quite correct in saying many people survive stab wounds. Then again, Julius Caesar was stabbed twenty-three times by his assassins, but the physician Suetonius proved that it was only one wound—the second one near his heart—that was mortal.” He smiled, and returned to his examination.
It became apparent that April Duprey had not bled out so much as bled internally. The sac around her heart wasn’t the only thing filled with her blood; so too was her lungs and stomach.
“My conclusion is that Miss Duprey was a healthy, middle-aged woman . . . except for the knife wound that killed her,” Munroe said as he finished his inspection, and began the process of sewing her back up.
Middle-aged? That gave Kendra a jolt. Though, given the average life span for women during this era, she supposed thirty-five would be about middle-aged. It made her a little queasy, and she nearly laughed at the absurdity. She had no trouble watching an M.E. disembowel another human being, nearly up to his elbows in blood and gore, but the idea that someone in their thirties would be considered middle-aged left her weak in the knees.
Munroe made use of the bucket of water someone had brought in earlier to scrub the blood off his hands. He glanced over at Kendra. “I must say that I had reservations about allowing a woman to view a postmortem, Miss Donovan. You, however, have been a pleasant surprise.”
The doctor, Kendra realized suddenly, wasn’t the only one who’d been hampered by prejudices. If she were honest, she’d thought little of her nineteenth-century counterparts. She’d judged them and, because they were different, had found them wanting. It shamed her. These people might not have the sophisticated tools of her era, but they were all intelligent. She might not be able to trust them with her time-traveling secret, but she could trust them in this quest for truth and justice.
She smiled. “Right back at you, doc.”
46
Having two women turn up dead didn’t hamper the house party’s festivities, although Kendra noticed that the outdoor nuncheon Lady Atwood had planned for that day was set close to the castle, in the east garden. The garden was walled off, deep green lawn bordered by trees and topiaries that had been trimmed into fantastical geometric shapes. Pretty flagstone footpaths wound around flower beds exploding with a rainbow of color. Tables had already been set up around the lawn, but most of the couples were strolling the walkways rather than sitting.
Kendra watched the ladies with their absurdly small parasols. It took her a minute, but she finally figured out that it was meant more for flirtation than a protection from
the sun. That was the root of this entire affair: the house party, the nineteenth century’s version of Match.com.
“Lady Dover has already sunk her claws into Sutcliffe, I see,” Rebecca observed dryly from beside her.
Kendra’s gaze traveled to where Alec stood with the Lady. They made a striking couple, she had to admit. Alec’s dark good looks were the perfect foil for Lady Dover’s golden beauty. She was twirling a tiny lavender parasol that both matched her gown and brought out the violet flecks in her lovely blue eyes. The gown in question clung to Lady Dover’s exquisite figure like a long-lost lover, her alabaster skin—and there was an indecent amount showing, Kendra thought critically—luminous.
“Lord Sutcliffe doesn’t appear to mind,” Kendra said, and hated how snippy she sounded. It was none of her business who Alec was sleeping with, she reminded herself.
“He will if he loses that arm,” Rebecca muttered. “The way she is holding on to it, it’s liable to pop right off.”
Despite her own irritation, Kendra had to laugh. “You don’t like her very much, do you?”
“I loathe her. She is a coldhearted shrew.”
Kendra watched as the woman pressed herself against Alec. Whatever she murmured in his ear caused him to laugh. “I don’t know about her heart, but the rest of her should be cold, wearing a dress like that.” She fingered the ruffled fichu around her throat—a concoction, like a modern day dickey, that Mary had whipped up to tuck into her gown in order to hide the bruises around her throat. “How long have they been involved?” She hadn’t meant to ask that, but once it was out, she couldn’t take it back.
Rebecca didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “According to gossip, since the Season began.”
The Season, Kendra had learned, was the London social calendar that began with the opening of Parliament in January. Seven months, then. “I’m guessing there isn’t a Lord Dover.”
“He expired five years ago, and she’s been having a grand time ever since. I only pray that Sutcliffe is not stupid enough to get himself caught in the parson’s mousetrap. She’d love to land a marquis, especially someone with his prospects.”
Kendra was reminded of her own thoughts last night, that Alec had more than his share of women throwing themselves at him. “You mean because he’s rich.”
“Rich as Croesus. And the Duke’s heir. That’s heady enough to turn any maid’s head—not that that creature needs any incentive. Come along, Miss Donovan. I see the Duke and Dr. Munroe.”
Kendra put Alec and Lady Dover out of her mind—or tried to—and allowed Rebecca to drag her across the lawn to where the two men stood by one of the tables. After the postmortem, they’d locked themselves in the Duke’s laboratory with April Duprey’s clothes and the evidence that Munroe had scraped from her body. Kendra was eager to talk to them about their findings.
“My dear Duke . . . Dr. Munroe,” Rebecca greeted. Then, in her usual brisk way, she asked, “Did you discover anything of significance in your laboratory, sir?”
Aldridge shot a quick glance around, then held out his arm. “Shall we walk . . . away from listening ears?”
They paired up, with Kendra escorted by the Duke, and Rebecca walking with the doctor. Like the other couples, they meandered seemingly at random along the flagstone paths. Unlike everyone else, they spoke of death.
Munroe began, “I am not a botanist. However, His Grace kindly assisted me in identifying the debris we found embedded in Miss Duprey’s shoe, stockings, and clothing. To wit, we discovered crushed bits of Campanula glomerata—purple bell flowers—acorn seeds, pine needles, twigs from the live oak tree, all of which are common in the area.”
Aldridge nodded. “Unfortunately, there is no way to pinpoint Miss Duprey’s location based on that. Yet we found one discrepancy. The stain on Miss Duprey’s pelisse was potash.”
Kendra frowned. “Potash? That’s some sort of fertilizer, isn’t it?”
“That is its main use, yes. Certainly here in the countryside, its most common use would be as such, or as a supplement for stock feed.”
“I don’t understand. If it’s so common, what’s the discrepancy?”
“’Tis more a matter of where it was on her person, and where it was not,” Munroe answered. “As you may recall, the potash was located on the upper back of Miss Duprey’s pelisse—not on the garment’s hem. Nor did she have any traces of the compound on her lower skirt, or stockings, or the sole of the shoe that she still had on. In other words, she did not run through fields or gardens fertilized with potash.”
“Then she probably picked up the trace evidence wherever she was stored until the killer could dump her on the path,” Kendra said slowly.
“Exactly my thought,” Dr. Munroe agreed.
“Of course, there’s another possibility.”
The Harry Potter glasses glinted in the sunshine as he looked at her. “What, pray tell, would that be, Miss Donovan?”
“She could’ve had the stain on her coat before she met the killer,” she pointed out. “We’re assuming it happened here.”
Aldridge beamed at her. “Excellent point, my dear! Post hoc ergo propter hoc. I told you, Dr. Munroe, that Miss Donovan has a keen and discerning mind. We cannot jump to a false conclusion based on a coincidental correlation.”
Munroe smiled. “Very true, sir. Alas, I cannot determine when Miss Duprey’s coat was contaminated, only that it is contaminated.” He shook his head. “’Tis a most fascinating case, I confess. I have worked many times with the London Watch and Bow Street Runners like Mr. Kelly. I am familiar with the more unsavory elements of humanity. The criminal element.” He gave Kendra a thoughtful look. “I must say, your hypothesis that a man of good birth is responsible for these despicable acts is disturbing, Miss Donovan.”
“That’s another fallacy, Doctor—that evil is limited to the lower classes.”
“You are correct, of course. Still, I have encountered more crime in the bowels of London than in a privileged environment like Aldridge Castle.”
“I’m not talking about crime brought on by desperation and poverty. I’m talking about evil. That has no class. In the fifteenth century, Countess Elizabeth Báthory of Hungary was convicted of torturing and murdering more than eighty young girls. She confessed to killing more than six hundred. She was an aristocrat.”
“Dear heaven,” Rebecca breathed.
Munroe eyed Kendra curiously. “I am aware of the account. However, as you noted, it was the fifteenth century. As I recall, the countess was under the belief that virgin blood would enhance her beauty and make her immortal. People of that era believed that witches and wood sprites brought about disease.”
“Superstitious nonsense,” the Duke sniffed.
“Times have changed, Miss Donovan. Mankind has evolved. We are more enlightened thinkers than our ancestors.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
He raised his brows. “You don’t believe we are evolving as a species?”
She thought of her earlier epiphany, that she wasn’t superior to her nineteenth-century compatriots. And she thought of the countless murder boards she’d stood before, centuries from now, detailing man’s depravity toward man, and shook her head. “We might be becoming more civilized as a whole—and I’m not even sure about that—but I don’t think mankind ever really changes. We’re not smarter, better, kinder people, Doctor.” She paused, grim. “We’re just inventing better technology.”
Aldridge gave her a puzzled look. “Technology? You mean, techniques?”
Dammit. “Or tools. We have better tools. They’ve improved and will continue to improve. But human beings?” The sun was shining, but she felt cold. “I think people like Sam Kelly and you, Dr. Munroe, will always have work. Because there will always be monsters.”
47
The sun was sinking behind the green and gold fields, casting long skinny shadows over the landscape, by the time Sam returned to Aldridge Castle. He’d spent the entire day riding over the
sodding countryside, trying to chat up the snooty servants in the neighboring households. It always amazed him how they adopted the airs of their betters, looking down their noses at the likes of him, even when he brought out his Bow Street Runner baton. He much preferred outdoor servants, the stable hands, and gamekeepers, down-to-earth folk whose tongues could be loosened with a dram of whiskey.
Unfortunately, even the free use of his flask hadn’t elicited much information, he reflected ruefully.
Fifteen minutes later, a footman escorted him to the Duke of Aldridge’s study. Entering, Sam saw that everyone was gathered around a table, studying the map of London that had been spread across it. Someone—Kendra Donovan, he guessed—had marked it with red and blue dots, using Lady Rebecca’s colored sticks.
“Ah, Mr. Kelly.” The Duke glanced at him, straightening. “Good evening. We are attempting to determine whether or not there is a pattern to where the girls vanished. Would you like a refreshment?”
Music to his ears. “Whiskey, thank you, sir.”
Alec took it upon himself to stroll over to the side table that held the selection of crystal decanters. He poured a generous three fingers into a stout glass, and brought it over to the Bow Street Runner.
“Have you found a pattern?” Sam asked curiously as he took the glass from the marquis.
“Not really,” Kendra answered. “There’s a heavier concentration of brothels near Sutton Street where Harris once lived.”
“Which may be attributed to Sutton Street’s location in a less desirable area in Town,” Munroe pointed out.
Aldridge picked his pipe off the desk, and lit it. “And you, Mr. Kelly?” he asked. “Have you learned anything of value?”
“The vicar’s household ain’t enamored of Mr. Harris.”
Rebecca gave a sniff. “That, my good man, I could have told you.”
“Aye, ma’am.” He grinned and took a sip of whiskey, appreciating the superior quality compared to the stuff he usually could afford. “’Tis a small household—a butler, the cook, a valet, and a maid-of-all-work. The cook does not live in. The butler, valet, and maid have rooms near the kitchen, on the other side of the vicarage from the family’s rooms.”
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