“I don’t understand.”
“She died from trauma to the brain.”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Alec broke it. “She didn’t die from strangulation like the first victim?”
“She was strangled repeatedly like the first victim. She was also sexually assaulted. The rest you know from your own visual examination—the bite mark to the left breast and abrasions on her wrists indicating she was restrained.” He stood up, clasping his hands behind his back as he addressed the room. “However, this victim received a head injury. Possibly from a rock, or a cudgel of some kind, although I found no wood slivers or particles in the wound.
“The blow fractured the girl’s skull, causing epidural hemorrhaging,” continued Munroe. “The blood clotted, putting immense pressure on her brain. She would have lived for several hours after the blow, but the head injury is the cause of death.”
“A rock suggests that this was a crime of opportunity,” Kendra said. “She wasn’t targeted, per se. Not like the other girls.”
Kendra turned to study the slate board, although the words were now burned into her brain. “Control is important to the unsub. But he’s been losing that control ever since the first victim was found. Part of his need to engage us is to reassert his control. If . . . if Rose . . .” the name lodged in her throat. “If she died prematurely, he would have been enraged. That would explain the postmortem stabbing frenzy.”
“Like a child having a temper tantrum,” Rebecca said softly, and shivered.
Munroe said, “One more thing of note. I discovered small wool fibers on the body, embedded in the wounds. With the aid of the Duke’s microscope, I’ve determined that the source of those fibers come from a coarse wool blanket, rug, or sack.”
Rebecca gave him a look. “How can you be so precise in your determination, sir?”
“’Tis simple, my Lady. The fibers lack what is known as crimp. The more crimp a wool fiber has, the finer the material it is spun into. Conversely, the less crimp in the wool fiber, the more coarse the material.”
“Someone—one of the boys who found her—put a wool coat over her,” Kendra reminded him.
“The skin would have to come in close contact with the material—the body wrapped in the wool coat, for instance—to get the degree of contamination that I observed.”
Aldridge frowned. “It would make sense for the fiend to have transported her away from the castle in a sack.”
“He’s bold and quick,” Sam said.
“And now he’s frustrated,” Kendra said quietly. “His fantasy was disrupted.” They stared at her, and she added, “You might want to speak to your sister about ending the house party early, Duke. There’s no predicting what the unsub will do.”
55
The Duke followed her suggestion, and spoke to Lady Atwood about ending the house party early. The guests’ planned departures for the next day resulted in a flurry of preparation—clothes and linens had to be laundered, pressed, and packed into trunks—but it couldn’t dispel the somber mood that had invaded the castle.
By evening, the ancient fortress had settled into a calm. Dinner was a simple affair, followed by cards rather than dancing. Unable to go through the pretense, Kendra stole a bottle of brandy and a glass from the Duke’s study and crept up to the roof.
The night air chilled her skin, but by her third glass, she didn’t notice. The alcohol ensured she didn’t feel the cold as she sat huddled halfway up the stairs that led to the battlements. Above her, the clouds of the day had thinned to reveal a handful of stars and the moon, which spilled icy light across the roof.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Kendra stiffened, glancing down as Alec materialized out of the shadows. She lifted her glass. “You should be a detective.”
He frowned. “You missed dinner.”
“I brought my own.”
He watched her toss back the brandy in one gulp. “You are abusing good brandy, Miss Donovan,” he said gently. “’Tis meant to be sipped, not swilled.”
“Well, thank you, Miss Manners. If you’re going to criticize, go find your own party. I didn’t invite you.”
Sighing, he removed his coat. “You are not only foxed, Miss Donovan, you must be frozen.”
“Actually, I’m quite warm, thank you very much.” Still, she didn’t protest when he climbed the steps to drop his coat around her shoulders. “And I’m not drunk. Yet.”
“Getting drunk will not help you.”
She poured more brandy into the glass. “Right now, it’s not hurting either.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said softly, “It is not your fault, Miss Donovan.”
“Then why am I here?” she wondered bleakly, staring into the glass. “If I can’t save anyone, why am I here?”
“I do not understand you, Miss Donovan.”
She laughed, but the sound was bitter. “Yeah, I’ll bet you don’t.”
“How would your presence here stop fate?”
“There has to be a reason,” she muttered into her glass.
“I do not know why you bother with using a glass at this rate.”
She gave him a crooked smile. “You’re right. It’s probably an unnecessary step.”
“Miss Donovan.”
“Lord Sutcliffe.”
He sighed heavily, and sank down on the step beside her. “You are following the same path as Gabriel.”
She was silent, feeling sorry for herself. “I just want to forget about everything for one damn night. Is that too much to ask?”
“That,” he pointed at the bottle, “will not make your pain go away. It will be waiting for you tomorrow. Along with a headache.”
“I don’t need a lecture.” She leaned forward and pressed the cool glass to her hot forehead. “God. I just want to go home. I want to go where I belong. I don’t belong here. I’m making things worse.”
“Miss Donovan—”
“April Duprey died because of me.”
“No.”
“Rose is dead because of me.”
“No. You cannot blame yourself.”
“Yes, I damn well can! I’m the reason the killer turned his attention to the castle! If I hadn’t been here to tell you that you had a fucking serial killer on your hands, you’d have thought Lydia had tripped and drowned while bathing!”
He regarded her steadily, disturbed by the profanity and her pain. “Do you think we are so stupid that we would not have recognized that Lydia Benoit had been strangled? That we would not have known we were dealing with murder?”
The rage left her as suddenly as it had taken hold. She slumped against the stones. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
“Is crime detection so much more sophisticated in America?”
She couldn’t stop herself. She began to laugh helplessly. “My America, yes. In my world, yes!”
“You forget, Miss Donovan, I’ve been to America—”
“No. No, you haven’t.” She suddenly knew what she was going to do. What she had to do. She was going to take a chance, a leap of faith, her courage helped along by the bottle of brandy. “My America is the world’s superpower.”
“America may have won the war, but your country is hardly that powerful—”
“Superpower—one word. It refers to global dominance.” Her hand trembled as she splashed more brandy into the glass. “The term was coined around World War Two.”
“World War Two?”
“In the 1940s.”
“I . . . see.”
“I can’t seem to remember the exact date. And I have an excellent memory.”
“Why don’t you give me the brandy?” He reached over to extract the brandy bottle, but she yanked it away, hugging it close to her chest. He sighed. “Miss Donovan . . . Kendra, the brandy has addled your wits.”
“No, it hasn’t. In my world, the United States of America is a superpower.” She tossed back the contents of her glass and ignore
d the little voice in her head that was yelling, Shut up! “This . . . all of this . . .” She waved the empty glass around. “It’s not my world, Alec.”
“I see.”
“Ha!” She leaned back and wagged her finger at him. “I told you that you wouldn’t believe me!”
“Believe you about what? You are not making any sense.”
“You’re not listening.” She shifted and nearly toppled over. Alec caught her, but she barely noticed. She leaned against him. “This is not my world.”
“You are talking as though you are from another planet.”
She frowned, considering that. “I’m from this planet, but not this time. Do you understand?”
“I understand that you have drunk half a bottle of brandy.”
“I’m being serious! Alec . . . I’m different.”
“I cannot dispute that.” He reached again for the bottle of brandy, and this time she relinquished it.
“Dammit, Alec. Have you listened to what I’m saying?”
“Yes. You are saying that you are from the future, the 1940s.”
That made her laugh again. “Oh God, no. That was way before I was born.” Her laughter faded when she caught his gaze. “I can’t prove anything I’ve told you. I don’t have any device from the future to show you, no time travel machine. I only have my knowledge . . . and it might not be wise to share too much of that with you.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged helplessly. “Because it could change the future. Look, you can send Sam Kelly all around England, and he’s not going to find my name on any ship manifests or in any place of employment. Ever. Don’t you see? I don’t exist in this time.”
“You may have used another name. Or Kendra Donovan may not be your real name.”
“Why do you have to be so damned logical? I know how insane this sounds, but I’m telling you the truth. I went into the secret passage in the twenty-first century, and when . . . when I came out, I was here.”
He stared at her uneasily. “This is inconceivable.”
“It takes a little getting used to.”
“Let’s say I believe you. How did it happen?”
“I don’t know. It was outside of my control.” She shivered as the memory came flooding back to her, the suffocating darkness, the terrifying sensation of being ripped apart and then knit back together. “My best guess is that it was some sort of vortex or wormhole.”
“A wormhole?” He sounded skeptical.
“Basically a shortcut between dimensions or through space and time—if space and time folded in on itself.” She sighed. “It’s complicated. At first I thought it was a random event. Horrible and strange, but still random.” She stared unseeingly out into the darkness, talking softly, almost to herself. “But then Lydia’s body was found.”
“What does that have to do with . . . your tale?”
She roused herself, looking at him. “Because I knew Lydia had been murdered, and her murderer was a serial killer. And in my time line, that’s my job. I hunt serial killers.”
“You hunt killers?”
“Serial killers. Otherwise known as stranger killings. I’m a special agent in the FBI. I study this type of killer, determining his patterns and predict what he might do next.”
“But you are a woman!”
She glared at him. “So? You think nothing is going to change in two hundred years for women? Let me tell you something, buddy . . . Oh, God, what am I doing?” She shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose, tried to focus. “I’m getting off track. Let me just say that women will accomplish great things.
“And I am good at my job. Or I used to think I was.” She was silent as a wave of remorse hit her. “I never even considered that Rose would be in danger. I didn’t anticipate that.” She rubbed a hand across her face, feeling suddenly weary. “I screwed up. What good am I here if I screw up? What’s the point?”
She put her head in her hands. Alec watched her, saying nothing. Eventually, he prompted, “FBI?”
“Federal Bureau of Investigation,” she mumbled, then jerked her head up to look at him. “Do you believe me?”
“I shall need time to consider it,” was all he said. He stood up, grabbing her hands and hauling her to her feet.
The world swirled, and Kendra found herself clutching at his arm. “I think I may have drank too much.”
“I know that you have drunk too much.”
She peered up at him. “That doesn’t mean I’m lying. Or inebriated. I’m not seeing pink elephants.”
“You say the damnedest things.” He hauled her to his side, practically carrying her down the remaining steps.
“Are you going to tell the Duke about what I’ve told you?”
“Do you want me to tell him?”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”
“If anyone would be open-minded about such a fantastical subject, it would be the Duke.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Alec took her by surprise when he skimmed a finger across the blunt bangs. “Your hairstyle . . . is this typical of women in the future?”
Kendra had to think about that for a moment. “It’s not atypical. We have trends, but there’s a lot more variety in hairstyles and fashions during my time.”
Alec shook his head. “I cannot believe I am having this conversation. ’Tis outrageous.”
“Welcome to my world, Lord Sutcliffe.”
Alec was silent again. Then he laughed softly. “Actually, Miss Donovan, if what you are saying is true, it is I who should be welcoming you to mine.”
An hour later, Alec dismissed his valet and sat before the fire in his bedchambers, contemplating the glass of brandy in his hand. He wondered yet again in less than a fortnight if Kendra Donovan was mad, or if he was mad to listen to her. Her story of vortexes and wormholes—devil take it, of being from the future—it was ridiculous. Utterly preposterous.
And yet his mind continued to flash back to the first night, after she’d stumbled through the passage. He remembered how she’d stared at the candles like she’d never seen such a thing before. And the Ming vases.
Two hundred years old—more like over five hundred years old!
He thought of how she’d subdued the hermit with those odd moves. She was a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation; she hunted serial killers. Dear Christ, what kind of woman did that? Although, if she could be believed, women’s role in society would shift significantly. Becca, at least, would be ecstatic to hear that.
He shook his head, unable to figure out his own emotions. Did he believe her? Who could invent such a tale if it weren’t true?
She’d spoken so blithely about Jane Austen, the authoress of Pride and Prejudice. He’d thought she must have some connection to the writer, and had immediately posted a note to the publisher. He had yet to receive a reply, and now wondered how he’d feel if the answer seemed to confirm Kendra’s wild tale.
He couldn’t bring himself to believe that these were the ravings of a lunatic. But she’d been foxed. Could he convince himself that it was a story spun by someone who’d imbibed too much strong drink? Perhaps.
Alec was torn between disbelief, denial, and a strange sort of wonder. Slowly, he finished the brandy and set the glass aside. He moved to the bed, shrugging out of his banyan. He blew out the candle and, in the darkness, he slid beneath the crisp sheets and bedding. Stacking his hands beneath his head, he contemplated the light and shadows that danced across the painted ceiling from the glow of the fireplace.
The Duke would be interested in hearing Kendra Donovan’s story, as peculiar as it was. But he’d promised to keep quiet, and he intended to keep that promise. A time traveler deserved a little consideration, he supposed.
56
She’d told Alec that she was from the future.
The memory came flooding back in horrifying clarity as soon as Kendra opened her eyes the next morning. She’d drank a lot—could still feel the af
tereffects of the brandy, the way her head swam just a bit woozily as she pushed herself to a sitting position—but she knew she hadn’t imagined her conversation with Alec.
What would he do? She suppressed a panicky shiver, and considered all the angles. If he told Aldridge, the Duke would . . . what? He’d always been surprisingly accepting of what he undoubtedly regarded as her eccentricities, but there was a big difference between thinking someone odd, and thinking them certifiable. Really, Aldridge had known her less than two weeks. If the positions were reversed, she knew she’d be calling for a psych evaluation. Could she blame him if he called in a shrink—a mad-doctor? Even the name made her shudder. Like the insane asylums of this period, it conjured up primitive, torturous conditions and ignorance. She’d never survive it.
But what recourse was open to her? Here, she was a servant. Although she wasn’t familiar with this era’s laws regarding mental disorders, she knew her voice would never be heard over the powerful Duke of Aldridge’s.
Of course, there was another possibility. He might actually believe her. Could she get that lucky?
She thought of her life so far: involuntarily sucked through a vortex, stuck in the nineteenth century, her one friend murdered. No one would consider her lucky. But everyone’s luck had to change sometime.
She didn’t know how long she sat there, fighting panic and waves of nausea, until a soft knock at the door roused her. She glanced up as Molly poked her head in. Her eyes, Kendra noticed, were still red and puffy.
“Oi came ter see if ye need ’elp dressin’, Miss. Are ye ill?”
“I don’t feel so hot.”
“Aye. There’s a chill in the air.”
“No, I mean—forget it.” Kendra slid out of bed, then hesitated, a lump forming in her throat. “I’m sorry, Molly. About . . . about Rose.”
New tears shone in the maid’s eyes. “’Tisn’t yer fault, miss. It’s the bastard ’oo done that to ’er. We’ll catch ’im and ’e’ll ’ang from the gallows. And Oi ’ope ’e rots in ’ell!” She sniffed, and bent down to pluck the dress and spencer that Kendra had discarded on the floor the night before, tossing both on the bed. “The gentry are leavin’ terday,” she said in a quieter tone.
A Murder in Time Page 40
